


prompt: D/s

by alestar



Series: post-Civil War MCU stony bingo [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8166376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alestar/pseuds/alestar
Summary: Pornography!  Also, please understand how daunting it is to write post-CACW D/s that is not depressing as shit





	

 

He'd meant to never, ever, ever ask about it-- but he'd meant to not do _many_ of the things he'd done in the last year-- so one lonely listless morning in Wakanda, Steve asked Wanda about the vision she'd given him during the hunt for Ultron, and she didn't know anything about it.

“With the empty dance hall,” he clarified, gazing blankly at her.  

They were sitting at a small table near a coffee cart, in the relative quiet of Sparrow's Walkway, far from the bustle of the promenade.  Wanda looked down at the table, hand curling around her coffee, probably uncomfortable at hearing just that small disclosure.

"I cast spells," she said.  "I can direct a spell to create a, an outcome, but I'm not a telepath. I wouldn't know how…"

"Where it hurts," Steve said, after a pause.  

Wanda nodded.  Thereafter the conversation turned to local politics, to the changing weather, to news of Clint and Sam, who had smuggled themselves back into the US three weeks ago.  

But after that, for days, Steve's thoughts returned to it.

The dance hall vision had captured Steve's loneliness in perfect mimetic detail, a vision so complete it had reverberated into later dreams, but he'd thought of it like a movie, something external that had struck a terrible chord.  He had accepted that Wanda had made that imagery; he had forgiven her for it.  

To know that Steve himself had made it-- that Wanda had sent him a wave of misery like someone mailing a diamond necklace to a household, and Steve had populated it, like the husband in the household spinning up his own story of his wife's infidelity-- it was a difficult revision.

It had been easier to brush the vision aside as an effective lie, but as it turned out, it wasn't a lie: it was an explanation of Steve's unhappiness that had been waiting inside him.   

 

+

 

"You want to do this?" Wanda asked again, leaning over Steve in his bedroom in their suite.  

She said it quietly, already knowing his answer, and he smiled reassuringly up at her.  "If you're okay with it," he said.  

She nodded, and at the sight of the smokey, crimson chaos magic gathering around Wanda's hand, Steve let his eyes fall closed.  

Then he hears the sound of metal echoing against concrete, and he fights it instinctively.  

Steve reared up, Wanda's outstretched hands hovering over him, eyes wide.  "Steve--" she said.

"No-- no, sorry."  Steve shook his head, settling back down against the pillows.  "Please."

"Okay," Wanda said, "close your eyes."  

Her voice was low and pitched to soothe, though Steve knew from experience that she could force her way in without his consent.  She was trying to make it easier.  He closed his eyes.  

“Imagine you're standing at a window.  Imagine the room is behind you, and you are slowly turning to see it."

The temperature around Steve drops, and the dark behind his eyelids is replaced by blinding white.

He tries to imagine a window, but instead he is looking out of a giant concrete exhaust duct.  He doesn't get a chance to turn around because Tony's fist collides with the back of his head.

Steve hits the concrete slab face-first, bouncing off it, then he spins.  He throws his shield at Tony, who deflects it with a repulsor blast, and Steve dives to catch it as it ricochets at a new angle.

They fight.

Steve's eidetic memory recorded every punch, every push, every roll of bodies in his fight with Tony in the Siberian launch facility, and in his mind they play out in perfect detail, except Bucky is absent-- Steve lands all of Bucky's blows, and all Tony's accusations are shouted at Steve.  

Steve knocks Tony's legs out from beneath him; Tony hurls Steve's body into a wall.  It keeps going and going.  They batter each other.  

Steve swings his shield into the sternum of Tony's armor, and Tony rolls, spinning his right elbow around to plow into the tender joint of Steve's shield arm.  

The shield goes flying.  Tony's other arm crashes into his trapezius, and Steve falls to the ground.  His chin hits hard against the concrete floor.  

He hears the whine of a charging repulsor as a gauntlet fists in his hair.  Steve scrabbles for purchase on the floor, pushing himself up onto one elbow.  There's blood in his mouth.  

"Stop," he says.  

And suddenly, Tony stops.  The fist opens, and the repulsor whine subsides.  Tony's gauntleted hand touches Steve's shoulder.  

"Color?" he says.

"Red," Steve wheezes.  He bows his face against the dirty floor.  "Oh fuck-- red."

Suddenly there are arms around him, pulling him back, turning him over, Tony's bare hand curling around the back of his head.  Tony's wearing a t-shirt and jeans despite the Siberian chill.  He folds himself over Steve.

"Shhh," he says against Steve's forehead.  "It's okay.  It's okay, I stopped."

Steve pants against Tony's throat.  "It's over?"  

"It is, it's all over.  It wasn't real."

"Oh my god."

"I'm sorry," Tony says, stroking Steve's arm. "I thought you liked it."

Steve pushes his face against Tony's skin.  He smells coffee and sweat and motor oil.  

"I do like it."  

"But you want-- you want that part to be over?"

"Please," Steve says hoarsely.  

“Okay...”  Tony pulls back, studying Steve's face for a long moment.  "Is it-- do you want to be good for me?"

From somewhere inside Steve, somewhere from the belly of the horrible past four months, a sob wells up. "Please."

"Okay," Tony says, nodding. "Okay, be good for me."  His hand slides down Steve's jaw and strokes a thumb over his mouth.  "Are you ready?"

Steve nods, and Tony pushes him back down onto the floor.  He looks serenely down at Steve while he unzips his jeans.  He palms his erection, then scoots up Steve's body until he's straddling Steve's face, gently stroking the tender line of his throat.  

"Open," Tony says.  

Steve's lips part, and Tony slides inside-- into his mouth, into his throat.  He gives Steve a short moment to adjust before he starts fucking his mouth with slow, long strokes.  He curves over Steve's face, kneeling, holding himself up on one hand while the other hand cradles Steve's skull.  

"Oh fuck,” he says, pumping inside.

Steve's world narrows to the feel of the cold bunker floor beneath his arching back, Tony's fingers in his hair, Tony's cock filling him up, his own wet choking sounds.  He palms his own erection through the front of his jeans.  He can't draw a full breath, and his skin tingles, the concrete scrapes at him, his vision behind his closed eyes glitters.  

Eventually, Tony drops to both hands, still buffering Steve's head against the floor, huffing over him. He pulls his hips away, drawing his cock out of Steve's mouth with a long, wet trail between them.

"Okay," he says, breathing heavily.  "Turn over."

Steve turns, supporting himself on his forearms, and lifts his hips as Tony reaches around him.  Tony opens his jeans and tugs them down to Steve's thighs; he leaves them there, pinning Steve's legs together.  

Then he draws Steve's wrists back behind him and murmurs, "Hold yourself open."

The position grinds Steve's chest and jaw into the floor, and the dirt coats his wet chin and mouth as he shifts, but Tony straddles him, and Steve groans.  He feels the head of Tony's dick against him.

"I want you to take it," Tony says, voice low, pressing forward. "I want you to take my cock."  The push of it is slick inside Steve, but the size of Tony still burns, still stretches him, Steve's bound legs making it tighter and more difficult.  Steve gasps against the floor.  "Can you take it?"

"Yes, oh god.  Please."

"Okay-- "  Tony seats himself fully, thighs pushing against the backs of Steve's hands, then draws out again.  "Okay, you're so good, just hold still."  

He slides slickly in again, then out, and then he leans forward, one hand on the ground and one hand pressed between Steve's shoulder blades; then he's fucking in earnest, pinning Steve with his weight, his palm, his cock.  

Steve's dick is trapped beneath him, moving with each of Tony's thrusts against the concrete floor, and it hurts, it hurts, but Steve's whole world is dominated by Tony on top of him, and he can hardly think past the excitement and the pleasure.  Steve can see his climax on the horizon, the giant glittering shape of coming, when Tony's pace ebbs to a standstill.  

Tony shifts on his knees, then he moves his hand from the floor to Steve's wrist so that Steve is bearing nearly all of his weight.  "Color," he says, fucking slowly.

Steve presses his cheek to the ground, pinned by Tony's hand, legs bound, arms held behind his back, Tony's fingers tight on his wrist.

"Oh god," Steve slurs, "green, oh god."   

Tony fucks into him faster, then, and Steve knows he's going to come with his dick rubbed raw on the concrete, with Tony holding him down, tapping at that white-hot place inside him.  It is perfect.  It is meant to be this way.  "Oh god, oh fuck."  

"You feel so good," Tony says, pounding into Steve's spread-open ass.  "Hold still, fuck.  I'm trusting you to hold still.  Hold on."

Steve gasps, "Please trust me."

"I do, I'm giving you my cock because I trust you." Tony stoops forward, and then it's his forearm bearing his weight across Steve's back.  "If you promise to be good, I'll believe you.  I'll give you anything.  I'll give you my cock forever.  Do you promise?"

"fuck, I promise, I promise--”

And then Tony's coming, and Steve's coming, face scraping hard against the rough floor as his body bows helplessly. Tony's hips stutter against him, emptying inside Steve, and he shouts, falling forward.  He presses his face into Steve's dirty rucked-up t-shirt.  He says, voice wrecked, "God, you're so good."

 

+

 

The first time Steve had stirred from Wanda's spell, he'd woken up alone on the metal floor of a salvage ship, disoriented, queasy, desolate.  

The second time, November in Wakanda, he woke alone in his own bed, sweat drying on his body.  In Wanda's kindness, it wasn't misery that chaos wrought: not yet at least.  Steve wasn't sure what it was, but he stared up at the ceiling, nerves singing, limned in quiet.  Breathless with clarity.  Instead of desolation there was relief.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> so, MCU meta says the Scarlet Witch is a telepath, but that seems like a weird, unnecessary adjustment to 616 canon. Also anyone can say whatever they want in interviews; I don't have to deal with it until it's in the film, so just come with me on this. Steve's specific super gay thoughts remain undisclosed, though of course we all know what's up.


End file.
